


morning finds you still warm and breathing

by s0dafucker



Category: The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post 3x06, a fistfight CAN be romantic. if youre fucking gay, more like period typical internalized homophobia, nothing violent or aggressive tho! no hatecrimes here, thats what this fic is, you know that post thats like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:01:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21923323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0dafucker/pseuds/s0dafucker
Summary: he's thinking about imogene. he shouldn't be thinking about imogene, with his ring burning a hole in his pocket and joel's knuckles bruised up from his face, but he's thinking of imogene and trying to conjure up something that'll make him want to go home. he loves her. he loves her and he never wants to kiss her again and he's afraid to upset her. he doesn't know what that adds up to.(archie's thinking about imogene and wondering how painful it'd be to check his watch and then he's thinking about joel. fuck you, joel.)'fuck you,' he says, but he's smiling, he can't stop smiling, and joel tosses his head back and laughs into the night.
Relationships: Joel Maisel/Archie Cleary
Comments: 13
Kudos: 91





	morning finds you still warm and breathing

**Author's Note:**

> just a warning archie and i say queer quite a bit in this one

and there's one dark moment, shining like a black eye, when the tablecloth's over their faces like that fucking painting, the one imogene likes- the couple drowned, kissing in front of the lake, sheets over their faces- archie's face is hot and aching and he's thinking of his ring in his pocket and joel's face and joel's hands and 

the bouncer's grabbing him by the arms and joel's making some smartass remark and maybe it's the booze or the swelling in his jaw but archie is forgiving him, just like that, and he's laughing and they're getting carted out of this nice bar on their asses. 

'i'm sorry,' joel says later, when he's a little drunker and they're sharing a step and a cigarette that archie keeps taking from his hand and trying to figure out how to not touch his fingers in the process. it's not working. his jaw hurts. 

he's thinking about imogene. he shouldn't be thinking about imogene, with his ring burning a hole in his pocket and joel's knuckles bruised up from his face, but he's thinking of imogene and trying to conjure up something that'll make him want to go home. he loves her. he loves her and he never wants to kiss her again and he's afraid to upset her. he doesn't know what that adds up to. 

(he was supposed to forgive joel, that's what he paused for, not just to drag on the cigarette but to let archie fill in the blank, hold for applause,  _ it's fine, buddy, forget about it, _ and instead archie is thinking about kissing him. archie's thinking about imogene and wondering how painful it'd be to check his watch and then he's thinking about joel. fuck you, joel.) 

'fuck you,' he says, but he's smiling, he can't stop smiling, and joel tosses his head back and laughs into the night. it bounces off a lampost like a ping pong ball and shoots archie right in the heart.

(archie doesn't even know any queers. he's never met one. joel's as straight as they come, anyway, ladies' man through and through and through, papercut to archie's jugular, joel's knuckles bruising up nice and purple-red like somebody gave him the world's weirdest hickeys.) 

joel, drunk as he is, pushes him into the nearest payphone and insists he tries to call imogene, and the light's all blue-yellow and harsh in there, the too-white face of his watch delightfully informing him that it's 11:17. 'fuck,' he says, and he dials anyway.

he wishes joel would've come in with him. it would've been hell, crowded up in this glass coffin with the dial tone and the operator who reminds him of his brother-in-law and joel's shoulders up against his, joel in his tidy suit and hair mussed with sweat and fighting and running his hands through it, and he wants it anyway. hell is other people, what the fuck is that from, that play he saw with-

imogene picks up. he can't hear the click of her earring but he thinks he can, for a second, gunshot-click, her lips pursing in an attempt not to scowl, because frowning gives her wrinkles, eyes like blue fire. she's looking at the clock, most definitely, counting seventeen reasons he'll be sleeping on the couch until all the kids have left for college, and archie's trying to apologize when she informs him in neatly-partitioned vowels that he can stay with joel, if he'd rather spend time with him than his own wife and kids. the kids, she goes on, aren't off limits, because she isn't cruel and they love their father, all of her words clipped and slicing, like he doesn't deserve the fullness of her voice anymore. those precious seconds she could've lingered on her goodbye and hello aren't his. imogene is cordial and archie is freezer-burnt with it, his chest cold and his jaw hot and his heart thumping like something's trying to get out of his chest. joel will be pissed, he realizes, standing there with the receiver complaining in his hand, with imogene off to bed in her curlers. he didn't hear the click of her earring, he realizes. she doesn't sleep in them. 

joel's looking at him, all hang-dog eyes, and hell if he doesn't feel so goddamn naked. like he's in for surgery. like joel's looking right into him with those eyes, eyes with the moon in 'em, or maybe it's the streetlights. same thing, really. lightbulbs and stars and a bed with joel in it. 

joel isn't pissed, for the record, the two of them in a bar that isn't familiar and yet achingly so, him holding his cold glass to archie's jaw like a joke, but he never was a good comedian and archie's so far gone. 

'i've never said fuck as much as i did tonight. fuckin' never. not even in college.' he's tired. he's sore. he's throbbing like an old bruise, like he's jabbing his thumb right into some mindless injury. just for fun. masochist, is the word. he wanted joel to punch him, really. it knocked something into place, quieted the static in his skin or maybe made it worse. depends on how you look at it, cockeyed and lockjawed, joel grinning and dragging his fingers through the wet place on archie's cheek. the bruise blooming and the condensation left over it, blood on ice, joel's hand somewhere it shouldn't be, not like that.  _ punch me again _ is dancing on archie's tongue, hurried and nervous. 

'fuck,' joel says, his voice rough, tone somewhere to the left of a joke. got lost on the way, archie figures. he wets his fingers on archie's jaw and wipes it off on his nose, so he'll smile and say, 'screw you,' and they'll turn back to their drinks and it'll be normal. he doesn't. archie lets him stare and he doesn't talk and he doesn't move and joel's got lips like a girl, except just the opposite, except archie thinks they'll feel the same. he's gonna lose his mind, looking at joel in this shitty bar. chase his tail into oblivion. 

archie taps out first, turns back to his gin, and joel clears his throat and pays for it. 

'you don't have to-'

'you're a cheap date, arch. it's fine.' 

maybe joel loosened one of his teeth. set his jaw a little to the left. archie's off-kilter and he's never been off-kilter like this, like he's missed a cue somewhere or filed something wrong and now he's the only one who can tell the world's shifted under his feet. maybe that's melodramatic. how the hell would he know.

drink your fucking sorrows, archie cleary, joel mutters in his ear or archie thinks he does or archie dreams he does, dreams up permission to stare down his glass until joel's broad hand is on his back and he's saying something about work in the morning, his breath smokey and warm, and they're catching a cab. 

(intermission, in the cab, quiet and maybe a little crying that archie can't even decipher, doesn't know how it came out of him. a sob that feels like choking, like throwing up, hot tears and joel's fever-hot fist knocking him back.)

the curtain's back up now, you can look again, archie's dried his face and apologized to joel and joel's patted him on the back and said it's alright, with a bare-faced honesty that has archie wanting to kill his father for instilling this shamelessness in him; you're not less of a man for crying, joel says, and archie wants to throw a punch of his own. 

(he's cried in front of imogene a dozen times over, about everything from the kids being born to  _ of mice and men,  _ but something about joel looking at him while he does it makes something ugly seize up in him, joel's drunk-soft gaze and arms around him, helping him out of the cab far too gently.) 

joel's taking off his shirt and archie groans, aloud, because it's too fucking much, because he's already fucked and watching joel's steady hands unbutton his shirt is like a crime. there's decency laws for a reason, maisel, he says in a better version of this, where he's flirting instead of sulking, where he isn't staring or he is and it's okay. where's the version of this where everything's okay. he laughed when joel's mom mistook them for queers but his mouth's too dry to laugh now, with joel's shirt laying dead on the floor like roadkill. 

(archie's staring at his chest, 'cause joel looks obscene, honestly, in his wifebeater excuse for an undershirt, looking for all intents and purposes like a chick, just a little- firmer. god, archie shouldn't be looking. joel's violating a thousand fucking decency laws like that, his arms and his chest and his throat, like a greek statue, like a painting of the devil.) 

archie's sitting on his bed and staring and joel tilts his head, studying, the cogs in his head gummed up but still functional, putting something together. good fucking luck, maisel. 

he wants to squirm under joel's gaze, his jaw hot and swollen, but he's bone-tired and almost worn out of shame so he sits and lets joel glean whatever it is he's looking for. 

it isn't too dark to see joel thinking, with his desk lamp glowing gold, his face gilded when he grins, like he's king midas, like archie's jaw is gleaming along with him. 'arch?' he says, and he's cautious and he's warm. 

'yeah?'

'why'd you leave your ring off?'

his ring sitting heavy in his pocket. joel in a bar throwing a punch. joel in a bar at 3 in the afternoon celebrating nothing. joel in a bar painting walls in that sweater that makes archie wanna close his eyes or maybe staple 'em open. joel in a bar holding his cold drink to archie's hot cheek. 

why'd you leave your ring off. why d'you think you're never gonna put it back on. why're you lookin' at me like that, arch, what's wrong. 

'forgot,' he says lamely, his tongue limp and booze-sour. 

there's something sweet in joel's eyes that just makes him ache. turns him inside-out. he takes a step forward, and then another, and archie is really going to just fall out of his skin when joel murmurs up against his lips, 'you forgot?' and it's teasing but it's soft and it's sympathetic,  _ you can trust me,  _ joel and his divorce and his eyes too close to see and his mouth too close to ignore and archie feels like a criminal when joel reaches out and cradles his cheek, too tenderly, with the same hand he punched it with. he doesn't move. he could pull back and they could forget about it and he doesn't and joel kisses him. 

it's 19-fucking-60, it's a new goddamn decade, archie's terrified anyway and joel's kissing him. his eyes are warm, in the dark, when he pulls back and holds archie's face. 

'what about-'  _ girls,  _ archie wants to say, but it's so juvenile, so he lets joel fill in midge and penny and everyone who came before and after and in-between. 

joel shrugs, one-shouldered and half-sheepish. 'i like keepin' my options open.'

(he kisses greedy and devouring, savoring, wanting and taking and wanting. holding archie by the waist, pulling him closer. archie's never wanted to kiss anyone this bad in his life.)

(to be fair, joel's only competition is imogene, who he's beginning to think might not be his target demographic, but still. archie thinks he might die without the scotch-and-smoke taste of joel's mouth.)

he reaches for joel's hair, because he's rock-climbing without a harness, because he's sky-diving and needs his parachute, because imogene never let him do that for fear of ruining her hair. and okay, yeah, he definitely has plans to ruin joel's hair, so- not an unfounded worry.

'lay down,' joel says, and archie can hear his smile, the tired alcohol-rough rasp of his voice.

he gets up to turn out the light and archie takes off his shoes and shirt and pants, leaves his socks 'cause it gets cold in the factory, watches joel's sure stride. the lamp clicks and it's blue-dark, something forgiving and sweet. 

he’s starting to make up ethan’s bed for himself, but archie sits up and says, ‘it’s your bed, i’m not gonna take it,’ and moves to leave; joel hurries over to stop him- a good idea, that, with how it makes archie’s head spin- and archie pulls him in by the shoulders. 

he stumbles, a little, turbulent, and says in an undertone, ‘alright. we can share.’ 

(like he’s nervous, or like he’s placing a bet, like it’s a dare. like he’s expecting archie to refuse.)

(he probably is.)

‘i'm a free man now,' he says, tracing joel's jaw, emboldened by the dark and the tendrils of exhaustion sinking into him behind his eyesockets. they’re lying down. archie’s lying down in a bed that also contains joel maisel and he can’t stop touching him. archie’s lying down in a bed that doesn’t contain his wife. 

'you're drunk,' joel deadpans, a smile in his voice. 'get some sleep. you can have a sexuality crisis in the morning.'

'did you?' 

he means to joke, snag on the hint of levity joel had provided, but both of them end up hitting too close to serious. 

'not really. messed around a little in college, didn’t freak out too much about it. met midge before it went anywhere, but honestly i think my parents'd be more pissed if i came home with a gentile than a guy.'

archie snickers. there's another joke there, he knows it, but it's got implications that make his heart pound horribly, so he skips it and runs his fingers through the hair at the nape of joel's neck. 

'i thought you and mei were really hitting it off. i mean, it looked like it.' joel takes to the touch like a cat being petted, his eyes closing and a sigh escaping him, and archie doesn't want to wonder how long it's been since someone was gentle with him. 

'she's a friend. a good friend.' he scootches closer, lets archie fit his hand around his neck. 'we don't, ah, bat for the same team. or i do, sometimes, and she doesn't.' 

archie’s aware of the way conversation is supposed to go, back-and-forth like a tennis match where everyone participates and he replies to joel when he talks but he only manages a ‘mm,’ before he returns to stroking joel’s spine over his shirt and feeling the way he relaxes. 

‘i didn’t leave midge for penny,’ joel says quietly. ‘i mean, i did,’ his shoulders go up and then down, the muscles rolling under archie’s hand, waves in the harbor; ‘but not really.’

archie isn’t following or he thinks he is and then he crushes the thought, because wouldn’t it just break his stupid heart-

‘i didn’t know i left her for you, arch, but i- i dunno, i had an idea? i’d been going down to the village and i’d been thinkin’ about it more and i figured if i- i thought penny would set me back on track or somethin’. i wouldn’t ever need to tell midge or you or anybody, i’d just-’ the tension is back with a vengeance in his shoulders and his back and archie doesn’t know why joel picked now to tell him this, when there’s a headache starting to bloom behind his eyes and he’s ten seconds from sleep, when he isn’t sure how much of this he’ll remember, when he’s holding onto joel like a life raft. 

his breath wavers and catches and archie shifts closer, holds tighter, and joel mutters, ‘shit, arch,’ with his voice thick. 

tipping point. breaking point, maybe, that’s what this is. he took his ring off and he knew he wasn’t putting it back on, just like he knew he couldn’t give less of a shit about those girls, just like he knew getting punched by joel felt better than getting kissed by imogene. (fuck, imogene. he doesn’t wanna think about imogene.) 

he pushes his forehead against joel’s in the dark and reaches for him and they’re kissing, red-hot and slick, archie almost too tired to keep up but trying his damnedest anyway. maybe joel’s crying. maybe they’re both falling apart. maybe they’re finally putting themselves back together. 

**Author's Note:**

> im SAD my partner and i are going through a ROUGH PATCH i wrote this to COPE 
> 
> i also wrote this bc i LOVE mei and i want her to like. not be defined by falling in love w joel so instead joels a sap and hes in love w archie thank u for coming to my ted talk
> 
> im listening to achilles come down rn and gotta say.. 'you crave the applause yet hate the attention and mister ur act is a ruse' Thats Joel  
> im so soft for joel honestly especially this season


End file.
